


Tingle Becomes a Chill

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:44:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone saved my life tonight</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tingle Becomes a Chill

**Author's Note:**

> Much much love to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) for looking this over. Written for the [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/), prompt Loss of limb/limb function

  
It starts as a tingle in his hand. He shakes it until the sensation goes away, figuring a pinched nerve or fucked up circulation. He doesn’t give it much thought – passes it off as sleeping wrong or something – until one day he can’t shake it out, can’t get rid of it and then it doesn’t go away at all, a low-level buzz of something not right.

He doesn’t mention it to anyone, because mentioning shit makes it real and he’s got no desire to do that, thank you very much. He’ll just keep pretending it isn’t happening and if it _is_ happening, it sure as fuck doesn’t mean anything. They just spent over a year in the fucking studio and there’s no fucking _way_ that anything is fucking up this tour.

No pun intended.

He packs his shit and his guitars and he squeezes some stupid stress ball that he bought on impulse out of the dollar bin at Target. His right hand is fine and he squeezes the fuck out of it, until he’s pretty sure the latex or rubber or whatever it fucking is is going to burst apart and shed sawdust everywhere. He tosses it into his left hand and watches as it falls to the floor, his fingers reacting and gripping far too late to catch it.

Well _fuck_.

Frank has called four band meetings in his life. Two of them were to share the really fucking _awesome_ porn he found so he doesn’t think they count. The first one was in Japan right before they boarded, Gerard curled into Brian’s protective embrace, barely able to support himself, and Frank and the rest of the band standing around Mikey, holding him up and holding him back. The second time was when they all sat Gerard down and told him to pick the final fucking song list for the album before Warner did it for them. It took three weeks and actual restraints to keep him from running off to write more songs or mess with the board, but they actually got an album (or four) out of it and sent the master to Warner before anybody got hurt.

This makes five. Or three, depending on how he’s counting. He doesn’t want to think about this one at all, so he simply sends a text to everyone that he’s bringing the coffee. Meet him at the rehearsal space.

Mikey’s eyes widen the minute Frank walks in, which just reaffirms his belief that Mikey’s got fucking mind-reading powers, and Ray gets it as soon as he realizes Frank’s doing everything one-handed. It takes Gerard a few more minutes. Of course, it takes that long for Gerard to stop talking and asking questions and realize that everyone else is quiet, and not the typical ‘we know we’re not going to get a word in edgewise, so why bother’ sort.

“What?”

Frank makes a fist with each hand, the right one closing easily and the left failing to close at all. He can’t say it. There’s no way he can say the words. There is _nothing_ in life that Frank can do that doesn’t involve playing guitar. It’s the only thing that matters to him outside his friends and family, and it’s the only thing that’s saved his life. Gerard watches, waiting for the punch line, but it suddenly seems to click and he snaps his mouth shut. There’s nothing but silence, and Frank fucking _hates_ silence. He’s about to say something when Gerard stands up.

“Ray? Mikey? Can you guys…go away?”

Mikey takes everything in stride, and Ray’s the most easygoing guy ever, so they both get up and leave. They’re guitarists – _they get it_ \- so they don’t say anything, but Frank knows they’re both there if he needs them. And he does. He will. Just right now, he needs someone to tell him it’s going to be okay, and he’s not sure he’d believe anyone else. Gerard makes him believe all sorts of shit that isn’t possible and then Gerard makes it happen.

The place seems to echo without anyone else in it, and there’s the low-level hum of electricity that means things are plugged in, _they’re_ plugged in, ready to make music. Only he can’t do that anymore.

“Gee?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice, but he does recognize the safety offered in Gerard’s open arms and he beelines for him, losing himself in the musky scent of leather and soap and hair products and _Gerard_. “Oh god, Gee.”

“Shh.” It’s more comfort than a command, Gerard’s hand smoothing down Frank’s hair and his voice calm in his ear. He doesn’t calm down, not really, but he does let Gerard lull him closer. “We’ll figure it out, Frankie. I bet you haven’t even seen a doctor.”

“I hate doctors.”

“I know. But maybe it’s a pinched nerve or something they can fix. Maybe you need that surgery that all the baseball players get.”

“I don’t play baseball.”

“You know, Lou Gehrig’s disease existed before Lou Gehrig. They just didn’t know what to call it.” Frank can feel Gerard smiling. “And if you say a word about me knowing who Lou Gehrig is, I will squish you like a bug, Iero.”

“If it exists in pop culture, I know you’ll know about it. But I bet you can’t tell me what Lou Gehrig ever _did_.” Frank closes his eyes, losing himself in Gerard’s steady breathing. This is better, even though he can’t feel the heat against his skin as he slides his hand under Gerard’s jacket and shirt.

“He got a disease.”

“Right. Right.” His voice is muffled by Gerard’s coat. “Maybe they’ll name this after me. Ieroitis. Or Frankoliosis. Frank Iero’s Disease just sounds stupid.” He can feel the sob in his throat, choking him. “B-bad enough we just had to find a new drummer.”

“Hey. Hey.” Gerard pulls back and looks at him, holding Frank’s chin steady. “Listen to me, okay? We’re not going to have to find a new guitarist. You’re going to be fine. We’ll go to the doctor and get it figured out and you’ll be fucking _fine_. We’ll kick Frankoliosis in the ass.”

“Right. Okay.” He nods, blinking back any threatening tears and swallowing down the sob. Gerard says it, so it must be so. “Gonna save my life along with everyone else’s?”

“Why would I bother with anyone else’s if I can’t save yours?” It’s a fleeting kiss – Frank’s not actually sure it happens or if he imagined it or if the lack of feeling in his hand has spread to his brain and he’s hallucinating – barely brushing his lips. “C’mon.” Gerard wraps his arm around him, heading toward the other room where Mikey and Ray are likely waiting. “So, what did Lou Gehrig do?”

Frank shrugs, but only one shoulder moves. He tries not to let it bother him. Not yet. He’s with his band. He’s with _Gerard_. They’re going to figure this out. “Fuck if I know.”  



End file.
